


Les Fantômes

by Leezlelatch



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Drama, F/M, Love, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:27:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27745954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leezlelatch/pseuds/Leezlelatch
Summary: “I don’t know if you can hear me. Or if you’re even there. Truly, a part of me wishes you are not, that Leroux lied, that it’s all made-up. No one deserves to suffer like that. I...I don’t even know what to say, really.” Emma laughed humorlessly and moved away from the door, looking up at the plaque. “I’m a silly girl who believes that a work of fiction is real. But Erik,” her voice grew very low when she spoke his name, as if saying it aloud was forbidden. “You’re supposed to hear everything that goes on in your opera house. I hope you enjoy my music.”
Relationships: Erik | Phantom of the Opera/Original Character(s), Erik | Phantom of the Opera/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I unfortunately own nothing except Emma Grey and other original characters.
> 
> Impressions of the Opera House and Paris are my own from my recent trip back in March. 
> 
> Pronunciation Guide: Mieke = My-khu

CHAPTER ONE

“Ladies...ahem, Ladies and Gentlemen!” Conductor Jules shouted at the cacophony of voice which filled the auditorium.

Several faces from different backgrounds turned to look at him as conversations turned to whispers turned to silence. Feet bumped into instrument cases, and papers were quickly rustled before everyone truly settled in.

“Thank you,” Jules said, his lips turned up into a half smile, half scowl. “Welcome to the inaugural Musique de Monde at the Palais Garnier. While the brochures, unfortunately, described this experience as a “camp,” I can be the first to assure you that this is a serious program that could shape the very essence of your lives.”

“That isn’t dramatic,” a girl whispered sarcastically into Emma’s ear.

Emilia Grey, or Emma as most people called her, sat several rows back, slouched slightly in the opulent red theatre seat. She threw a smile toward the girl who had spoken to her but nothing more as Jules eyes swept over the crowd of young adults. Voices carried in a theatre built for opera.

“You will be tested, criticized, and perhaps removed,” Jules said. “But know that this is all to make you better musicians, singers, composers. This program will culminate in a grand performance for the public, and I am pleased and honored to inform you that the Director de Musique, our esteemed founder, will be in attendance. That being said, I expect greatness from each of you. You will determine if this program has a future here at the Garnier.” 

Jules suddenly brandished a piece of paper, the edges crinkled. 

“Monsieur Gerard McTaggert!” Jules shouted. He pointed aggressively at the stage. Curious eyes looked from one to another, and the aforementioned Gerard did not move. Jules bent slightly at the knee and waggled his head in a comic manner. “Well? Oh, do not think your audition tapes were it? We must place each and every one of you! Come now! Come on!”

One after the other, the 50 inductees of the Musique de Monde performed for Conductor Jules. In the end, only 15 remained.

“This isn’t even enough for a full orchestra!” The girl who had spoken to Emma before approached her after the final call. 

“Perhaps they only intend for us to play chamber music,” Emma responded. 

“You’re English,” the girl said.

“How awfully observant.”

“That came out weird, I’m sorry,” the girl stuck out her hand. “I’m Mieke. Flute. South African.”

“Emma. Violin. And as you said, English. You were brilliant by the way.”

“You too, which is why we were chosen,” Mieke said, bumping her arm against Emma’s. “It’s surreal isn’t it?”

Emma looked up at the famous chandelier of the Opera Garnier, her eyes taking in the brilliant colors of the mural around it.

“Surreal doesn’t even cover it.”

xxx

The 15 who made the cut were given lodgings along the Rue Scribe in a beautiful building which had already served as a hotel previously. It was renovated to create lavish apartments and shockingly included in the modest program fee.

“It is the Director’s wish that his students live in refinement during their stay,” Jules had said, his eyes alight with complete and hysterical devotion for this mysterious Director. He was clearly a man with money and great esteem, and most of the girls had already decided that he must be a gorgeous young man who will simply fall in love with them the moment he sees them.

Emma was pleased to find that her new companion Mieke was not of the same persuasion. 

The apartment was truly more than Emma expected. Plush couches and chairs framed an ornate coffee table which sat before a decently sized television. The room was open concept, leading into an attractive kitchen with bar seating, foregoing the traditional dining table. The left of the living area led into a short hallway which held a master bedroom, a large bath complete with a deep clawfoot tub, and an office equipped with a dark oak desk and plenty of shelving space. The apartment held plenty of storage, and Emma was pleased to find that a door near the front entrance of the apartment actually led to what appeared to be a music room, which after Emma shouted for several seconds, she realized that it was sound proof. The Director was truly generous, but Emma briefly wondered if being spoiled like this would be a hindrance to her colleagues, some of which appeared to be of the partying nature.

“Yours is like mine! This is going to be brilliant,” Mieke’s voice echoed through the entrance hall.

“I’m honestly surprised we’ve been given such luxury,” Emma said, returning from the music room.

“Gerard, you know that guy who went first, said that rumor has it that this “Director” appeared out of nowhere. Just started buying up everything. Gerard even said the guy actually bought the entire opera house.”

“That...is that even allowed? Is it not on some historical registry? Or, owned by some council? Whatever they do in France.”

“Who knows,” Mieke added. “Of course, Gerard could be lying. He probably is. Regardless, the Director is filthy rich. Wonder if we’ll meet him.”

“If he’s to attend the performance, I’m sure we will. As the inaugural group, he’ll likely want to see if his investment was even worth it,” Emma shrugged.

“I know Saoirse’s interested in more than playing music,” Mieke laughed.

“Who?”

“She’s Second Violinist. I heard her just steaming after you were named First. But I think she’s got it in her head that getting close to the Director could change that.”

Emma rolled her eyes, leaning against the frame of the archway that led into the living area.

“He’s likely married, and I don’t very much care if she was angry. We’re supposed to be doing this for the music,” Emma said.

“I hear you,” Mieke laughed. “Anyway, a couple of us were going to explore the area, get the lay of the land. You in?”

“Regretfully no,” Emma sighed. “I’d be glad to soon, I just...well, this sounds likely ridiculous, but I want to go back to the Garnier. I’ve dreamed for a very long time of going there, and I plan to make great use of our all access passes.”

“Okay! Here’s my number,” Mieke tapped it into Emma’s phone. “Just let me know when you want to hon hon baguette and all that.”

“That’s terrible,” Emma laughed. 

Mieke only winked before slipping out of the apartment door, and Emma continued quietly chuckling to herself after she was gone. It was nice to meet someone, to have a companion in a strange place. 

Making friends...never quite Emma’s forte. And it wasn’t for lack of effort of course, she just simply preferred to stay in, read a book, take in a movie, play her violin. While there were a great many 26 year olds who also practiced the same habits, it had always been generally difficult to find such people, as they were likely inside telling themselves just one more chapter.

In the end, lack of friendship wasn’t something that weighed terribly on Emma’s mind. It was what she knew, how she lived her day to day life, and she merely accepted that the right people come along at the right time. Like Mieke. Who Emma made sure to quickly text so she had Emma’s number as well. 

xxx

Stepping out onto the sidewalk, Emma was surprised to find that the street wasn’t as incredibly busy as one would expect for such a large and bustling city. Certainly, Parisians walked up and down the road, cars lined the street, and there was a definite activeness on the Rue Scribe, but Emma could stand in the middle of the sidewalk and not have to immediately move out of the way of someone trying to hustle down the pavement. There was a serene feeling here, not so panicked like London or how Emma imagined New York City in the States would be. One could take their time here. And Emma loved that.

Emma took her time walking down the street. She imagined a tall figure, swathed in black, keeping to the shadows and slipping from building to building before disappearing into a vast, dark entrance to the underground. During her walk, she made sure to look here and there for a break between the stone establishments for a gate, a sewer, or any manner of strange looking entrance. Unfortunately, modern day Rue Scribe did not appear to have something so unusual. 

Walking toward the Palais Garnier felt like walking home. In the twilight, the opera gave off an almost ethereal glow, strung from Apollo himself as he wielded his lyre above the bustle of the Place de l’Opera. 

If one were to arrive by Metro, they would find their backs to the Garnier. The nearly several hundred stairs, or so it felt like, to reach the street is rewarded by that first turn. When one is suddenly hit by the full breadth and splendor of the Palais Garnier. To Emma, it was like the world around her had gone silent. She didn’t feel the countless people striding past her or the sound of voices and traffic. She merely felt...calm. Which wasn’t what she expected the first time she saw the building that had haunted her dreams. She was awed by its beauty, overwhelmed at finally being there, but there was also a part of her that felt like she was merely returning after being away. 

The same feeling returned when she beheld the Garnier again, and she walked with confidence to the little side entrance that she and her colleagues had been given access to. There was a little card reader for her pass which opened the door and allowed her inside. The idea was that the students of the Musique de Monde should never be without their muse, this being the Garnier itself. So whether it was the crack of dawn or the middle of the night, they had access. Emma also found this incredibly hard to believe, but she merely accepted it, and was grateful for it.

This entrance led to a stairwell that reminded Emma of an old school. It was very strange to climb the stairs and suddenly be in the foyer, specifically, in the area which housed the entrances to the various opera boxes. Emma’s eyes couldn’t help but stray to the left where in the corner, and up a few carpeted stars, stood a door with a plaque that merely stated, “Loge du Fantôme de l'Opéra.” Box Five.

Emma quietly moved toward the opera box. Tours had ended for the day, and the attendant that usually sat near the box had gone. Emma gingerly took the few steps that led to the door, and standing on her toes, peeked through the little window. There was not much she could see other than a small area where Emma imagined Erik, the Phantom of the Opera, had left Madame Giry her little chocolates, and then further in, the back of a chair. 

Sinking back down, Emma sighed and leaned her forehead against the wood of the door. What did she expect to see? Or better yet, what was she looking for?

“I don’t know if you can hear me. Or if you’re even there. Truly, a part of me wishes you are not, that Leroux lied, that it’s all made-up. No one deserves to suffer like that. I...I don’t even know what to say, really.” Emma laughed humorlessly and moved away from the door, looking up at the plaque. “I’m a silly girl who believes that a work of fiction is real. But Erik,” her voice grew very low when she spoke his name, as if saying it aloud was forbidden. “You’re supposed to hear everything that goes on in your opera house. I hope you enjoy my music.”

Emma moved away from the door even further and stepped down. She breathed in, closing her eyes and wrapping her arms around herself as a chill swept over her. She could hear someone coming, and moved another step down. 

“I hope you are well,” she finished in a whisper. Turning, she continued into the main foyer, flashing her program badge to one of the attendants. Inside Box Five, a voice sighed.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be an ongoing story! :)
> 
> I think my update schedule shall be every Saturday. I do struggle with motivation when it comes to writing, so a week to kick myself in the butt should work! I hope!
> 
> I also hope you all enjoy my tale. I went to Paris last March and the Garnier was everything I ever hoped it was. 
> 
> And don't worry! Erik, in the ghostly flesh, will be around soon!

“Mademoiselle Grey, as our First Violinist, I expect you to im-pr-ess me. Can you impress me?” Conductor Jules said, clutching his playbook against his chest as he bent slightly at the waist and pierced Emma with his gaze.

She stared down at him from her place upon the stage, and at that moment she knew her face was like that meme of Dani from Game of Thrones. An “I would hang you from these rafters if I could” expression. 

“Of course, Conductor Jules,” she answered.

Lifting her violin, Emma launched into The Arena by Lindsey Stirling. A modern piece to be sure, but Emma enjoyed a variety of music from different eras. She loved 70s folk, the crooning voices of the 1940s and 50s, 80s pop, and whatever modern song fit her fancy. Whether she was scolded for playing this piece, she didn’t really care. She knew she was good. 

It is easy to be swept into the melody, to close one’s eyes and follow the music, allowing it to use you as a conduit for sound rather than a physical person creating it. But Emma enjoyed watching her fingers dance over the strings, and she enjoyed seeing how quickly she could move from one note to the next. It was a little game she played with herself, but one Conductor Jules would not likely appreciate. 

As she played, she turned slightly, feeling compelled to move her body. Her gaze swept around the theatre, meeting the eyes of her colleagues, and the bored expression of Conductor Jules. Emma nearly rolled her eyes, and swept her gaze toward the right of the stage. 

Her fingers slipped, the bow ripping across the strings, the violin giving a great shriek. Her entire body reacted and she stumbled back, for there, in the shadows of Box Five, were two yellow glowing orbs.

“MADEMOISELLE GREY!” Jules yelled as shrill as the violin. “If it is your intention to be removed from this program, you are doing a wonderful job of it!”

Emma stared at Jules with a shocked expression, barely comprehending what he was even saying. Her mind was whirling, her breaths coming fast. She quickly looked back toward Box Five, straining to see through the shadows of the curtains, but the yellow lights were gone.

Was it her imagination? Had she finally cracked, desperate for some proof that her favorite novel was real as the author, Gaston Leroux, had claimed? That Erik was real? Surely, surely it was a trick of the light, and she wasn’t completely mad.

“ -- you listening!?”

“What?” Emma gasped, finally taking in the situation.

Conductor Jules pressed a hand to his forehead in exasperation. Several students laughed. Emma gently put her violin back into its place and stood demurely on the stage. She could see Mieke angrily swatting in the direction of a girl she could only assume was Saoirse which is where most of the laughter was coming from. 

“I apologize Conductor Jules,” Emma said.

“Mademoiselle Grey, allow me to make one thing very clear,” Jules began, rolling his Rs. Emma was very careful to school her features. “There were several inductees who could have taken your place in this program, but I put my good faith in you in the name of the Director. By embarrassing me, you embarrass the Director, and I shall not stand for that. If you cannot perform as expected of the First Violin, you shall be demoted, or removed. Do you understand, Mademoiselle?”

“Perfectly,” Emma answered.

Conductor Jules aggressively motioned for Emma to leave the stage and she walked back to her seat uncaring of the smirk that Saoirse gave her as Jules called her to the stage to perform. 

“Are you okay?” Mieke whispered when Emma sat down.

“Perfectly splendid,” Emma said in a far away voice as she stared in the direction of Box Five. Mieke threw her a strange look, and took Emma’s violin case which Emma had been holding loosely, and placed it on the floor at their feet. 

“You look like you saw a ghost,” Mieke said.

A ghost? Or the ghost? Emma thought to herself. She replayed that moment over in her head. Tilting her body to the right, she had simply moved her eyes across the auditorium before they fell on Box Five. What she had expected to see was nothing more remarkable than the chairs and the heavy curtains. What she saw instead were two points of light in the darkest part of Box Five. If they were eyes, they would belong to a very tall man, but her brain and her heart fought viciously with this theory, and Emma slid further into her seat as she settled on it being merely a reflection of something from the stage. 

“I’m fine,” Emma finally said to Mieke. “I thought I saw something. It distracted me.”

“Jules is a crock. You were amazing, well, before.”

Emma smirked and crossed her legs, giving another glance toward Box Five. 

“I will be,” she said.

xxx

“Tomorrow, you shall be given one more chance to dissuade my sincerely unimpressed opinion of you Mademoiselle,” Conductor Jules said to Emma after class had ended. 

“I understand,” she said. 

Emma desperately wanted this conversation to end as swiftly as possible. There was much sleuthing to do, many Opera Ghost activities she had to take care of because as much as her mind told her she was acting completely mad, Emma knew she wouldn’t be satisfied until she debunked the mysterious “eyes” of Box Five herself. 

“Then be off with you,” Jules finished. 

Emma began to walk backward and shot him a smile as sour as a lemon.

“I’ll have you know, Conductor, I am the greatest violinist in the world.”

Jules squeezed the edges of his playbook and turned haughtily to the side. He eyed her with distaste, his brown hair flopping over his forehead. Emma thought, if he wasn’t entirely obsessed with the Director, Jules may not be an entire pain in the ass.

“I will believe it when I see it!” Jules enunciated each word between his teeth, and stomping his foot as if he were stepping into a march, he hastily exited the auditorium. 

Emma laughed to herself. She liked to imagine life like a book, or a play, or really something more exciting than what she was used to. Jules would definitely be comedic relief. Mieke the caring and fierce best friend. Saoirse the bully. And Emma would trounce all obstacles, fall in love, and live happily ever after. The thought made her laugh all over again.

Looking round to ensure everyone had gone, Emma climbed up onto the seats, hastily checking to ensure her converse didn’t leave a print on the upholstery. She climbed the few rows in the front until she was directly in front of Box Five. Unfortunately, and Emma blamed her small stature for this, she couldn’t even see over the edge of the Box.   
“Lovely,” she muttered. She stepped up onto her toes and nearly fell into the row below her. Cursing, she looked back up and said, “You know Monsieur Le Fantôme, if you deign to interrupt me while I am performing, you may as well introduce yourself.”

Receiving no response, and after waiting several minutes, Emma climbed back down. 

“It’s not fair, you know,” she said one more time to the dark Box. 

As she wandered back down the aisles, Emma couldn’t help but hum to herself, thinking of the lyrics from Andrew Lloyd Webber’s famous, and highly incorrect, musical - “He’ll always be there singing songs in my head.”

xxx

After entering the Grand Foyer, completely overwhelmed by its beauty, Emma looked to her right, back up at the ceiling, and then to her right again.

“Don’t do it. Emma, don’t do it,” She said in a sing-song voice. “You will only make yourself more miserable.”

Turning fully to the right, Emma smiled brightly, “Miss. Grey, that is exactly why we do it,” she said to herself.

Determined, Emma walked the half circle around to Box Five. An attendant sat on a stool near the steps that led to the box, fiddling with his phone. He stood as Emma approached, already shaking his head.

“Pardon me, Mademoiselle, but tours are ending. I must ask that you make your way to the exit. The gift shop is still open if you would like to purchase something.”

Emma squinted at the nametag on the front of his blazer.

“Jean,” she began. Emma pulled out her program badge and winked. “I’ve just come to say good evening to our resident Opera Ghost.”

Jean looked relieved and laughed, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize who you were. So many faces you know.” He sobered, “You don’t really believe the old stories do you?”

“I do,” Emma said. “And you don’t?”

Jean shrugged, picking at a string on his slacks, “Sometimes, well…”

“Well?”

“Sometimes things happen. Just silly things. Lights and disappearing objects,” Jean turned and pointed at his stool. “You know where I found that the other day? In the rafters! Above the stage. It’s always going missing. But I know it’s just Louise or Albert or someone.”

Emma smiled, “Or a ghost.”

Jean visibly shivered and laughed, putting a hand behind his head, “I certainly hope not. Well,” a nervous glance toward Box Five. “I’ll leave you to it. Good evening Mademoiselle.” 

“Good evening,” Emma whispered, watching him walk, a little quickly, around the bend. When his footsteps completely faded, Emma turned back to the problem of Box Five. 

Once again stepping up the few red carpeted stairs to the little viewing window, Emma peered inside. And once again, nothing. But when she rested her hand against the doorknob, the door swung open silently. 

Emma stood half bent at the open door, her eyes wildly staring into the box, her mouth open slightly. Her hand was still up as if she were still gripping the door knob. What in all nine layers of Hell was that?

Emma stood straight like a pin. The door was supposed to be locked. The door is always locked. Jean, it must have been Jean. Did he forget? Emma’s thoughts whirled in her head. There had to be some explanation for this, but as her heart and mind settled, Emma was relieved. It saved her from picking the lock.

xxx

Stepping into Box Five felt like stepping through a mirror. There was almost pull, as if the layers of her world were trying to bring her back, telling her to go no further. But into the opulence of Box Five she went. 

There wasn’t anything particularly peculiar about it. It looked like any other box in the theater, as incredibly red as ever. Emma vaguely wondered if Erik had a say in the color scheme of the Garnier. Was his favorite color red?

Emma laid her hand on the back of one of the chairs, imagining him sitting, hidden by the drapes, watching Faust and yearning for his Marguerite

“I think,” Emma said quietly. “There is supposed to be a secret passage in here.” 

According to Gaston Leroux, Erik was able to enter and leave Box Five through a column 

“And since this thing is more bloody enormous than I realized…” Emma started. 

She suddenly moved forward and pressed her ear against the ostentatious column to the left of the box. The sculpted image in the stone pressed against her face, but despite the discomfort, she raced a hand and rapped against it. 

The column sounded thick and unyielding.

“I’m getting very put off here,” Emma grumbled. “I don’t know what you want,” Emma said loudly to the Box. “But I saw you. Didn’t I see you?” She ended quietly. 

Was it a trick of the ghost? Or a trick of the mind? 

Feeling very sad, Emma left Box Five.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!! Early update! I hate waiting as much as the next person and the chapter was done so I said heck with it!
> 
> Please welcome our esteemed Opera Ghost.

Three hard raps on her door had Emma flinging it open at the crack of dawn the next morning. Mieke stood there grinning like the devil and holding up two iced coffees. 

“I thought after yesterday you might need a pick-me-up,” she said.

Emma smiled gently and took the offered drink, holding it between her hands almost awkwardly. She failed to tell Mieke that she wasn’t a coffee drinker, and glanced mournfully at her unfinished tea which sat on the bar in the kitchen.

“Thank you. I do appreciate it,” Emma finally said, letting Mieke further into the apartment. 

The living area was already filled with what Emma would call an organized mess. Books, papers, sheet music, and other odds and ends filled every available surface. The door to the music room was hanging open, her violin propped up against the wall. Emma had practiced well into the night after her embarrassment yesterday, and the near heartbreak she had felt after leaving Box Five. 

“You’ve certainly made yourself at home. I haven’t even unpacked my suitcase,” Mieke laughed.

“Makes me feel better, to have my own space,” Emma said.

“I get that,” Mieke started. “I shared a room with my sister back home. I love her, but I’m so glad to have my own room.” Her words were said on a breath as she collapsed onto Emma’s couch. Emma sat gingerly beside her, still clasping the cup of coffee in her hands. 

“Do you have siblings?” Mieke asked.

“Mhm. A sister and a brother.” Emma said. She looked down and cautiously took a sip of the coffee. Yep, still didn’t like it.

“Are you close?”

“No!” Emma said loud enough to startle Mieke. “I mean, we aren’t, they are a bit older than I am. I don’t really see them, talk to them.”

“Honestly, I can’t imagine not having my family around,” Mieke responded.

“I can’t imagine what it’s like to have family around,” Emma countered, shooting Mieke a small smile.

Mieke’s eyes softened and she scooted a little closer to Emma. She took the iced coffee from Emma’s hands with a pointed “I know you don’t like it” and set it on the coffee table. 

“Well,” Mieke said. “Guess that means I’ll have to be your family. If you’ll have me, seeing as we just met and all.”

Emma laughed, “That’s very kind, and I accept.”

xxx

The girls walked together to the Garnier, running into Gerard on the way who was idly skateboarding down the pavement. They chatted about the program, how absolutely insane Conductor Jules was, and Emma couldn’t help but broach the subject of the Phantom of the Opera.

“Never read it. Classic novels, not my bag,” Gerard scrunched his nose. 

Mieke shot Emma a look, feigning a swoon. Gerard was attractive. Tall, broad shouldered, shaggy reddish-brown hair. An accent to die for. Emma hoped that her friend would find romance in the City of Lovers. It would be a perfect end to this adventure. 

“It is brilliant,” Emma said. She always felt particularly defensive about Leroux’s book. “And very sad.”

“I’ll stop you there, I don’t do sad,” Gerard laughed.

“Ditto!” Mieke said, stopping and throwing her arms up comically which made the group laugh. 

“Well, it’s my favorite,” Emma said once they had sobered. “Rumor has it that the story was true....that the Opera Ghost could still be there.” 

“Do you want to be snatched away by a basement monster?” Mieke said seriously and grabbed her arm.

“Absolutely,” Emma said, equally serious, leaning close with wide eyes. 

The group dissolved into laughter again, but Emma’s was more quiet. More pensive. Surely if the opportunity arose, Emma thought. She shook her head a little, her curls bouncing around her face. A light breeze pressed against her warm face. Oh, Emma, you are mad, she thought.

xxx

Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, no strange yellow lights peered out at her from the darkness as she played upon the stage. Jules was as pleased as Jules could get, citing that she wasn’t a complete disaster, but Emma was simply happy that she did not lose her spot as First Violin. 

Mieke was wonderful, twilling her flute like it was one with her. Gerard was a fantastic percussionist, and Emma was blown away by their pianist, Nora, whose hands looked like a blur as she moved from one octave to another. It was truly a wonderful group full of talented musicians, and Emma looked forward to hearing the singers, a little jealous that singing had never been her forte. She was no Christine Daae, which was probably the entire problem in the first place. 

As Emma sat in one of the rows, watching her friends and colleagues perform, she imagined what it had been like to watch one of the grand operas when the Garnier was Paris’s main opera house. With the completion of the Opera Bastille in 1989, the Garnier had primarily become the home of the Paris Ballet. One was only so lucky to see one of the classic Operas still played on the stage at the Garnier. 

Emma stretched her arms back and then turned to get a kink out of her back. She was surprised to find Jean the attendant anxiously waving her over from a vacant and dark area of the auditorium. Glancing at Conductor Jules, who was swaying in time to Nora’s playing, Emma slowly got up and made her way over to the frantic attendant. 

“You said you believed in the ghost, yes?” He said. 

“Yes,” Emma said slowly, drawing it out.

Jean simply grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the auditorium. They came round the horseshoe shaped hallway where the boxes were and through a set of doors Emma had not previously been through. They led further into the Opera House, and Emma wanted to stop and admire everything she saw, but Jean’s urgency propelled her further. 

Before long, she was surprised to find that they were behind the stage. She could still hear her colleagues playing with intermittent yelps of criticism from Jules. Jean had stopped and was looking at her with a rather horrified expression. She looked at him in confusion as he only lifted a hand and pointed up. Emma turned, and laughed aloud at Jean’s stool which hung from a perfect noose above their heads.

“Am I being threatened?!” He whispered in horror. 

“I think that’s called teasing,” Emma said, throwing Jean a very amused smile. “Maybe Monsieur Opera Ghost doesn’t like you guarding his box. Or maybe this is his way of saying he does like you.”

“Likes me!? I don’t want him...it...whatever to like me! I want my stool.”

“Well, go and get it.”

Jean’s eyes widened comically and he moved in place a little wildly as Emma could see him trying to figure out how he would get up there in the first place. 

“It’s attached to those sand bags,” Emma said. “Just find the right rope….for the rope,” she giggled. 

“You’re not funny,” Jean said, marching over to the ropes which were tied in perfect knots along a rung. “I’m going to be fired for this.” 

After several attempts, and Emma’s help, the stool was finally back in Jean’s rightful hands. He held it against him like it was his child, prompting more laughter from Emma, and a teasingly annoyed expression from Jean.

“What are we going to do...about that?” Jean said, aiming a look at the noose. 

Emma lifted it and held it aloft, admiring how perfectly knotted it was. 

“I think I’ll keep it,” she said, twirling it.

“Why,” Jean said flatly. 

“In case I’m ever cross with your stool.”

With a final exasperated sigh, Jean muttered something about returning to his post, and left her behind the stage. Emma swung backwards and turned all around, looking up into the rafters, and giggling quietly at how ridiculously excited she was at that moment. 

The stool, this noose, it could only be the work of...Emma laughed again, feeling like she was a character on Scooby Doo or something. The Mystery of the Opera Ghost, it would be titled. Unless it was just a joke. Unless Jean had done this to mess with her, or Saoirse or whomever. It was just...so difficult because she wanted it to be real, she wanted this adventure. Truthfully, she wanted to be the character in the story that was different, that could show him he was truly wanted, even if he only wanted her as a friend.

Emma stopped and looked down at the floor. It isn’t right to fancy oneself in love with a fictional character. She had no idea what he was really like. If he was still here, a hundred years of loneliness had surely driven him even more mad than Leroux described when he was alive. This noose, the stool, it very well could have been a threat not only to Jean, but to her. Stay away. 

But honestly, she didn’t know if she could. 

xxx

“This was a terrible idea,” Emma moaned, standing precariously on one of the cat walks above the stage. 

After nearly wrecking herself with her thoughts, the only next logical solution was to do something incredibly dangerous and stupid which was to climb the rafters into the catwalks. Emma wasn’t afraid of heights, but it was similar to gaining one's sea legs. The gentle rocking of the catwalk, now reinforced steel than wood of the old age, did nothing for one’s stomach, and Emma imagined pitching over the side and splattering on the stage. Conductor Jules would certainly appreciate that. 

Emma could see over the curtain, and she watched her colleagues for a moment. Conductor Jules was using his body to signify his fury it appeared, unless he was having a seizure. This far up Emma couldn’t tell, but she seriously believed he needed to sort out his priorities. 

It wasn’t until he cried out that the Director would be ashamed at the atrocity currently rendering Jules deaf did Emma realize that he was fine.

Emma moved a little further down the catwalk, and very gently sat until her legs dangled over the side. She looked far below her, her brow furrowing at the height and how much she was playing with fire, sitting here with nothing to hold her. It was simply the very essence of being above the stage in a place she considered one of the Opera Ghost’s worlds. Emma thought of Joseph Buquet. Perhaps Emma sat in the very spot he first beheld the Opera Ghost sneaking above the stage to catch a glimpse of Christine or to play a terrible trick upon the ballerinas. 

Her theory was this: Joseph Buquet saw Erik disappear through the little passage in the third cellar. Whether this was Erik’s plan, or simply Buquet’s foolishness, Buquet must have followed Erik and found himself trapped in the torture chamber. With no way out, he hanged himself with the noose which hung from the branches of the metal tree, a mockery of life in a place devoid of it. Upon finding him dead, Erik took him back him and simply hung him aloft in the third cellar to feign a suicide. 

Of course, she’d like to give Erik the benefit of the doubt, but she was unsure whether the torture chamber simply turned on when there was someone in it, or if he would have to turn on some sort of mechanism which controlled the heat. 

These thoughts only reminded Emma that she held what could possibly be the Punjab Lasso, Erik’s choice of weapon. Of course, Emma had no knowledge of rope or nooses. Unfortunately, she thought and laughed to herself. 

Emma’s laugh was cut short. With a great heave, the catwalk she was sitting on swayed terribly. It felt as if another person had leapt down upon it, the metal dinging and vibrating. Emma’s instinct was to reach up and grab the railing above her head, but she could already feel her bottom slipping, and her grip on the lasso did not allow her to gain purchase on the slippery metal. 

She had only a moment to stare straight up into the darkness and accept her fate which she had brought upon herself. At that moment, she thought of her father, who had died a long time ago, and who she missed terribly, and slightly smiled at the thought of seeing him again. 

She fell. 

The air rushed up and in one final act of self preservation, Emma flung her hand upward. And it was caught. 

The wind was nearly knocked out of her, and she could only helplessly gaze at her dangling legs and the floor below. Her colleagues still played in front of the curtain, a melancholic song fitting her intended fate. But she wasn’t dead. Was she floating? 

Emma only became slowly aware that a very cold hand was gripping hers tightly. Her eyes began their ascent, partly obscured by her black curls. She began at her shoulder and slowly raised her eyes to see impossibly long, skeletal fingers attached to a hand so pale it was almost yellow. Veins stood out under the sheerness of the skin, bulging at the sheer strength it must have taken to keep her aloft with only one hand. The hand was attached to a black clad arm, and as Emma finally looked up completely, she once again met the yellow lights that had watched her from Box Five. 

But this time, they were attached to a masked face, and were just as shocked as she felt at that moment. This only lasted a moment however, as Emma was suddenly airborne and upon her feet in a span of a few seconds. She rocked violently for a moment as her legs felt like jello, and she gripped the rails of the catwalk tightly.

“Monsieur le Fantôme, I presume?" She gasped. 

He didn’t speak. Stepping back, he tucked his hands within the long black cloak around his shoulders as if to hide them from her view. He stood very stiffly and stared down at her with those unfathomable yellow eyes, dimmed now that one of the stage lights was shining upon his mask. The black mask, which actually appeared to be a kind of leather, covered his entire face and nearly his entire upper lip. It was secured with a strap around his head, which Emma was surprised to find had a full head of hair. It was coiffed neatly, as was the rest of him, and Emma felt her cheeks pink as she looked at the bit of grey hair at his temples. 

He continued to remain silent as she looked him over, and her cheeks heated even more as she realized how incredibly rude she was being.

“Thank you, for saving me,” she managed to get out. 

With a dramatic flourish, so incredibly different from his previous stoic demeanor, he swept into a low bow and said, “Mademoiselle.”

In the next blink of an eye, he was gone. As well as the noose.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo....I've just kind of decided to update when I finish a chapter LOL I just can't help it, I want to get it out there!
> 
> There is a POV change in this chapter. Please let me know if it was easy to follow along, and if you enjoyed seeing the different perspective. 
> 
> Please enjoy reading, and I hope everyone is staying healthy and safe!

It took Emma a span of a few seconds, or so it felt like, to make her way from the catwalks to the stage floor. It sounded like her colleagues were cleaning up for the day, but all Emma could do was grab desperately for the curtain to keep herself from completely collapsing on the floor. She did, however, take a knee. 

He’s real. Erik is real! Emma thought, trying to retain every little detail of her encounter with the mysterious Opera Ghost.

He was...most and not all of how Joseph Buquet described him. He was terribly thin, but his clothes appeared to be tailored especially for his tall stature and body other than hanging off his skeletal form as Buquet had described. He looked elegant and stately, but also menacing and his black leather mask was so expressionless, it was difficult to determine what he thought of her in that moment. Erik had appeared surprised when their eyes had met as she hung from the catwalk as if he had not expected to save her. Emma had deduced that it was he who had made the catwalk swing, and she briefly wondered if he had merely meant to further unnerve her, or finally introduce himself. Considering how quickly he disappeared, Emma assumed the former. 

She hoped he felt just a tad guilty.

But he saved her! She had felt his cold, long fingers wrapped around her wrist, so he was clearly corporeal which did not fit any definition of ghosts she knew. Emma cast her gaze back up into the rafters, looking for any indication of piercing yellow eyes looking down at her. 

“Emma?” Mieke’s voice carried over to her from around the curtain. She was peeking behind it where Emma still sat on her knee. “What are you doing?” Mieke asked. 

“Taking in...the backstage,” Emma said slowly, getting up with a small oof. Her legs still felt a little shaky after her near death experience. 

“I don’t think we’re allowed back here,” Mieke whispered, looking behind her. “Don’t let Jules catch you.”

Emma took a chance and walked forward, breathing hard out of her nose in relief when she didn’t fall. She hurriedly followed Mieke out from behind the stage, and looked quickly up at the darkened interior of Box Five. Nothing.

xxx

“Mieke,” Emma began as they slowly walked back to the apartments. “Do you ever feel like...you imagined a whole day?”  
“Ever since I came here,” Mieke replied.

“Really?”

“Well,” Mieke continued. “This is a huge opportunity, and we’re in Paris! This kind of stuff just doesn’t happen.”

“Right,” Emma smiled and dropped the subject. That wasn’t entirely what she meant, but she agreed that being here at all was simply a dream. But Emma wanted to know if her recent dream was just that, or reality.

“You know what,” Emma said, stopping. Mieke stopped a few steps ahead and looked back. “I just realized I forgot something. I’m gonna head back.”

“Do you need me to go with you?” Mieke asked.

“No, thank you. I’ll just be a tick.”

Without another word, Emma turned and moved into a jog, her heart carrying her back to the one place she loved most. 

Entering the Opera felt different this time. The building felt more alive to her now than it did when she first arrived. The walls watched her every move, the statues whispered to one another secrets of the underground. The Garnier held such magic, and now Emma knew for certain, well almost, that it was real. Today would be the final day to prove she wasn’t crazy before she...made herself forget. 

She was very good at that.

Moving quickly to Box Five, Emma was pleased to see that Jean was gone for the day. And once again taking those few carpeted steps to the door of Box Five, she knocked. 

“Monsieur Opera Ghost,” she said softly. “It’s Emma. From earlier. I wanted to thank you again. Are you there?”

Silence met her call.

“Monsieur, please. I saw you, the mystery is over. Can’t we not talk?”

Silence. Emma sighed and leaned against the door. Was he even there? Honestly, he could be down below. You’re an idiot talking to doors, Emma thought. Suddenly feeling furious with herself, with him, with the whole damned affair, she rapped hard on the door.

“Erik, open up!”  
The door swung inward. 

Nearly caught in the same silly position as the first time, Emma quickly straightened and marched into the Box. Her confidence only lasted a few seconds as she came to a complete halt when her eyes met the back of a head. A tall figure sat poised in one of the Box chairs, his hands, now gloved, carefully gripping the armrests. 

“Hello,” she said a little brusquely. 

A hand lifted and casually gestured to the seat beside him, but angled quite far away from its original position. Emma tentatively walked over and sat, facing forward as he was, not wanting to make him feel as nervous as she did. 

“How are you?” She spoke again.

Hearing no answer, Emma finally turned her head slightly to peer at him. She felt her blood heat as she met his impossible yellow gaze. He stared at her with a peculiar turn of his mouth. 

“Explain to me, Mademoiselle, your presence here,” Erik said, his voice just as lovely as she remembered. 

“Surely you know,” Emma said on a half-laugh. Erik did not look amused.

“I am aware of your employment, what I asked of you is your presence here.” He tapped on the arm of the chair to indicate the opera box. 

Emma looked down at her hands and swallowed, suddenly feeling embarrassed and silly, and completely a child. Erik waited patiently, the heat of his gaze searing her skin. This is like meeting your favorite celebrity, Emma thought. Completely awful. 

“I wanted to know if you were real,” she finally said.

“And your brush with death was not enough to solidify my existence, that which it is?” 

“I merely thought myself-”

“Mad?” A wolfish smile graced what Emma could see of Erik’s features. It made the mask tilt up enough to see just a little more of his very pale skin. He was all straight lines and sharp angles, and Emma was surprised to find that he had considerably decent teeth. Very unlike poor Lon Chaney’s version in the 1925 adaptation. 

“Quite,” Emma answered, folding her hands in her lap.

His demeanor changed as quickly as it had the first time they met. He seemed to shrink away from her, looking down at his hands. He appeared to sit on the edge of his chair, leaning as far away from her as possible despite the already considerable distance of the two chairs. 

“Perhaps that was Erik’s intention,” he said very softly, still looking down. His hands twitched.

Emma tilted her head to the side and looked at him very carefully. The air had turned to ice, and she felt like she was suddenly treading in very dangerous territory. Sometimes she was so...intent on fulfilling her own wishes, Emma realized that brazenly thrusting herself into his afterlife could very well conjure some consequences. 

Erik was a man who had and has suffered immeasurable pain. His psyche was hanging on by a thread when he was alive, Emma couldn’t imagine what 100 years of bitterness and loneliness could do to a person who originally lived a half life anyway. His slipping into third person was testament to that. She was so thrilled at the prospect of proving herself right that...she didn’t consider the damage she could cause.

“Erik,” she said softly. “I am sorry. I won’t bother you again if you wish it.” She turned her body fully in his direction. “I can’t begin to understand, and I won’t pretend otherwise. I simply offer my companionship if you’ll have it.”

xxx

Erik is the Phantom of the Opera. In truth now more so than before. Dying had been easy. He had laid himself within his coffin and let himself fade. For what was the alternative? He thought he knew pain. Pain was never having a mother’s love. Pain was countless eyes staring at you, mouths laughing at you, fingers pointing and jeering. Pain was the sting of a master’s whip. Pain was a palace, drenched in the blood of many. 

No, true pain was a kiss on the forehead. 

And so when his chest began to tighten. When he shivered from fever. Erik allowed himself to die. 

And when he opened his eyes and looked down at his body, he wept. When his love did not return as she promised, he grew angry. 

Anger fueled him in the beginning. He was foolish. Surely a spirit could not be seen, could not be a physical being, yet the open mouths and screams of the ballet rats said otherwise. There were a few...accidents back then, but he learned quickly, as he did with all things. He was already a master at keeping from the public eye. This was merely an exercise in ghost-hood. 

Eventually, he grew tired. Screams could only sustain one’s anger for so long. And as the years went by, he watched from the shadows as his beloved opera changed. As the old workings were replaced with new technology. As ballet took precedence over opera. The world moved on and he was a stagnant pool. 

Often he wondered about Christine. If she had lived a good and happy life, as he always wished for her. He had ached to be the one to provide that life, but Erik was aware of his imperfections. After all, he had had a long time to think about it. 

And in that time he wrote music. Music for every decade of his despair. His little apartment underground was full of sheet after sheet of agony. Erik was content to continue like this, no longer hoping for change. Yes, he sometimes entertained himself by teasing the ballet girls or that poor lad Jean who sat outside his box. Erik found it incredibly bad form to perch oneself outside of his personal box, so he took it upon himself to remove the offending stool at every opportunity. 

The most recent upset in his world, however, consisted of a group of sub par musicians led by a fop of a man who knew nothing of the great musics. Erik himself had yet to glimpse the mysterious benefactor of the program, but imagined he was as musical as Managers Debienne or Poligny, which wasn’t saying much.

Then there was the problem of the girl. Emilia Grey as her record stated, from London, England. She preferred Emma as Erik learned, but he found it reproachable to use nothing but her given name. He found nicknames to be a terribly modern invention, which wasn’t true at all, but a ghost was entitled to his opinions. 

Over the years, the increasingly annoying tourists of his great opera have come to do nothing more than gawk through the little window of his box. He became aware of Leroux’s book once they began selling it in the gift shop. Yes, his opera, his Garnier had a gift shop. It was truly horrid. 

There were times where Erik seriously considered seeing if there were any barrels of gunpowder that had survived the flood below, or he debated on whether he should reveal himself and once more claim his salary. 

But the difference between the regular tourist and the girl was that she was entirely too nosey and had 24 hour access to stand at his box and lament over a damn-ed ghost who did not deserve it. In truth, it had infuriated him. Erik had only revealed the shine of his eyes to ruin her performance. In the beginning, he had every intention of driving her mad, or getting her removed from the program. Emilia Grey had no right to try and understand his pain.

That morning, he had planned to frighten her further, yet as he watched her slip under the rungs and begin to fall, he saw the faces of his victims, he saw the face of Christine, and he revealed himself a true monster. It was pure instinct which thrust him forward to grab at her hand. The touch of another shocked him to his core. Her skin was soft and pliant, and her startled colorless eyes...no, stunning silver, had gazed up at him not in fear, but in equal shock, and there was a part of Erik that knew it wasn’t simply because she was dangling over the side of the catwalk. 

Erik didn’t know what possessed him to invite her into Box Five. A longing for conversation, which sorely lacked these days. For her to continue to look at him like she was glad to see him. Yet as his courage failed him, as the madness which he had so mocked her for took over his own mind, he saw Emilia Grey change. Something new entered her eyes, and nearly ready to snap at her for daring to pity him, he realized it was kindness. 

The girl was kind. And her declaration of...not understanding deflated his previous fury. For it was true - as much as one may try, as much as one may feel compassion for another individual, it is near impossible to ever truly understand. One can have the same depth of experience, but individuals process sorrow and tragedy in multiple ways. One may gain a general perception of a series of events so much so that it eases the burden of the individual in pain, but true understanding, as connotated here, is rare. 

Erik appreciated her candor. But he could not allow Emilia Grey to fall victim to the blackness in his soul. Erik deserved to be alone. 

With a great sweep of his cloak, he stood. He vaguely noticed that he towered over the girl even when she was standing. She was looking up at him with that same expression which tore at a heart he thought was long perished. 

“Finish your program, Mademoiselle,” he said roughly. “And leave this place.” 

Moving toward the large pillar within the box, he did not care as she watched him disappear into its darkness.


End file.
